A Mystery In Windermere
by persephonesfolly
Summary: In all my years among the undead, I've never met anyone quite like Sherlock Holmes. When he called for my assistance in a perplexing case of murder, how could I refuse? Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from either Twilight or the Sherlock Holmes stories. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

PROLOGUE:

"Dr. Cullen, I need your assistance," said Sherlock Holmes.

He stood at my door, clad in a tweed suit and traveling cape, a leather bag in hand.

It was weeks since I'd last seen Holmes. I'd asked him to locate the missing mother of a child left in my care, a child who lay sleeping in the next room over. Emily's mother wasn't coming back, and I'd agreed to transport her to her nearest living relatives, cousins in America. I'd sold the London flat and most of its furnishings so my rooms were not exactly inviting anymore, but I stood aside and gestured for the detective to enter.

"I'm sorry," I waved at the near-empty room. "Emily and I are leaving in a week…"

"I understand," said Holmes. "You won't be gone long."

Gone? Then the bag in Holmes' hand meant an overnight trip at the least.

"Can't Dr. Watson be of assistance?" I suggested, at a loss as to why Sherlock Holmes would turn to me for help. If the man had any sense, he'd avoid me like the plague. He knew what I was, and I'd warned him, obliquely, of the dangers of drawing the attention of the Volturi by an overly intense interest in vampires.

A shadow passed over Holmes' thin, saturnine face. "Watson's wife is ill. I can't ask him to leave her just now. Besides, it isn't his or your medical skill that I need."

"What then?"

"I may need you to help me find a vampire."

CHAPTER ONE

Settled at last in the upholstered seats of a railway carriage, I gazed at Holmes, still unsure of how I'd ended up agreeing to a trip to the Lakes District. My housekeeper agreed to look after Emily for a few more days before leaving my employment to go and live in the rooms I'd found for her near her married daughter. Mrs. Carmichael loved Emily, and I had a feeling she'd be over at her daughter's house helping with the grandchildren far more than she'd be in those rooms enjoying her well-deserved retirement.

Packing takes but a moment when performed at vampiric speed, so Holmes and I were able to make the next train to Kendal and stow our bags in the racks above our seats just as the train pulled away from the station.

"So what now?" I asked.

Holmes smiled tightly. "Now we go to the scene of the crime, Ambleside Chase."

"In the Lakes District?"

I'd never been there, though I knew it was the land of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey and renowned for its beauty.

He leaned forward slightly and began.

"A young woman was found dead in her bedroom, stabbed to death. The room was locked from the inside, the window was broken and the ivy outside torn as though someone had climbed it to reach her room."

I tilted my head quizzically. So far I didn't see Holmes' need for my assistance. If someone had climbed the ivy and killed the poor girl, surely he knew better than I how to trace the killer.

"The room," explained Holmes, "is on the third floor. The ivy is disturbed only directly below the window. The room below it had its window boarded up long ago and is now a linen closet, so no one could have used it to exit and climb up to the third floor. The ivy at the boarded window was intact as was the ivy on the first floor. The room below that one is occupied by the woman's grandfather, a retired Major General who claims to be a light sleeper."

"Ah." I was beginning to see why Holmes wanted my help. "So you want me to see if it's possible that one of my kind jumped up to the third floor, clung to the ivy, smashed the window, and killed the girl?"

"In a word, yes."

Holmes stared at me intently. I shrugged.

"I'm at your service," I told him.

"I shall hold you to it," he said grimly. "This case is one I would not ordinarily take, were it not for the seeming impossibility of the entry point, and certain political considerations." 

"Your brother Mycroft?" I suggested hesitantly. He'd mentioned having a brother in the government.

"Yes," he said, eyes narrowing as he concentrated on some memory. It was not a pleasant one, judging by his expression. "Mycroft asked me to take on the case at the behest of the woman's fiancée."

"She was to be married?"

How appalling, that a young woman on the brink of happiness should have her life cut short so tragically.

"Yes," said Holmes shortly. "She was engaged to Prince Heinrich Franz of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. As I'm sure you know, Prussia has swallowed up most of the independent German kingdoms and relations between Prussia and England aren't always cordial. A marriage alliance between Mecklenburg-Schwerin and Britain might serve to thaw relations a bit. Mycroft assures me that her majesty took a personal interest in the marriage."

"Her majesty knew the prince?" Queen Victoria had married a German prince, but there were so many German principalities whose royal families intermarried that it was possible she was related to Heinrich Franz by marriage.

"No," said Holmes. "She is very distantly related to the victim's mother, Cornelia Fitzgerald-Thomas. I doubt they've ever met or even spoken, but they would have had the marriage gone through as planned."

"So the marriage would have brought great fortune to the family."

Holmes nodded. "The Thomas family fortunes have diminished in the generations separating them from their royal roots. Fiona Thomas's death is a catastrophe for them."

"And a great grief as well," I suggested.

"Of course."

"Have you met Prince Heinrich Franz?"

Holmes leaned back in his seat and folded his arms.

"He is the client, I met him this morning," he said, and pressed his lips together in a thin line. I did not know Holmes well, but I could see that his client did not meet with his approval.

The train slowed to take on passengers, one of which settled in our compartment, so discussion of the case necessarily ceased. Holmes stared impatiently out the window as the grizzled interloper sat down beside him and noisily unfolded a newspaper and began to read. I sat and considered what Holmes had said. It was like a fairy tale gone horribly wrong. A handsome prince sweeping a young Englishwoman off her feet, promising to save her family from poverty and anonymity, only to have the love of his life cruelly torn from him. And yet, Holmes' expression when he spoke of the prince did not imply that the man belonged in the role of hero. To the contrary, the detective appeared to dislike the man.

I had the chance to understand Holmes' reaction several hours later when the train arrived in Kendal. We planned to take a pony trap to Windermere to stow our luggage at a small local hotel before making our way to the crime scene at Ambleside Chase, which was the name of the Thomas family estate. Instead the prince's servant awaited us at the Kendal station with a note commanding our presence at the Westmorland Hotel.

The servant, a stocky middle-aged man, was well dressed and spoke with a heavy German accent. He moved in that stiff, overly formal way that Germans seemed to favor. He got us into a carriage and in short order deposited us before the door of Prince Heinrich Franz's rooms.

The Prince and his entourage occupied nearly an entire floor of the hotel.

Heinrich Franz stood by a side table with a decanter and a glass of liquor on it and was staring out a window as we approached. He turned to watch us enter.

The prince was on the portly side with heavy jowls and the beginnings of a network of broken blood vessels over his nose proclaiming him to be a drinker. His age was beginning to show in the fine lines creasing the skin by his eyes, and the threading of silver through his hair. Watery blue eyes and plump sweaty hands rounded out the portrait of a decidedly non-fairy tale prince.

"Ah, Herr Holmes, you've returned."

Heinrich Franz's accent wasn't as thick as his servant's but it was grating. His voice was over-loud, and I was interested to hear his heart pick up speed as he walked forward. He was definitely not in the best of shape. I shouldn't be surprised at all to find fatty deposits within his arteries blocking his blood flow. His blood didn't have the healthy 'thrum' through the veins of a younger, fitter man, and his heart had to work harder because of it.

Holmes bowed his head curtly so I followed suit. In all my years as a vampire, I'd never spoken directly to royalty before, not even a minor German prince like this one. Usually we kept to the shadows, away from court life.

"Yes, I've brought my consultant, Dr. Cullen."

The prince barely glanced at me at first, then stared as he took in my appearance. Becoming a vampire lent me a physical beauty that caused people to take a second look. He looked me up and down, then shook himself and turned back to my companion.

"So have you caught Fiona's murderer yet?" he asked sharply.

"No," replied Holmes calmly. His heartbeat was steady. "I've been on the case for less than a day, and there's still much to be done."

Smack! The prince's hand came down on the table, making the decanter jump and the glass slosh its liquid over the side.

"I told you, it's the revolutionaries! They could not get to me because of Hans and Felix so they murdered my poor dear Fiona."

Hans and Felix were evidently the two humans in the next room. I caught a trace of gun oil along with the ever-present blood smell of living beings. They were bodyguards, probably military officers assigned to guard the prince.

"What makes your majesty so sure that revolutionaries want you dead?"

Holmes' voice was gentle, though not exactly conciliatory.

The prince huffed, which set his jowls shaking. "Did they not follow me here? Did Hans not see one of them at the pub? They think that Mecklenburg-Schwerin should be like England, that if I and my cousin Friedrich Franz were dead that they could take over and form a parliament to run the country. A parliament! In Mecklenburg-Schwerin! Ridiculous!"

"Your cousin is well?" Holmes asked.

"Well, yes," answered Heinrich Franz, puzzled by the change in topic.

"I understand that your cousin is next in line for the throne, so he would have to be killed first for your death to have any meaning."

The prince's jaw dropped and stayed open for a few seconds as he looked from me, to Holmes, and back again. Obviously he was unused to people contradicting him. Then his eyes narrowed and an unbecoming flush filled his cheeks. It was unattractive and distracting at the same time for it heightened his blood scent.

One pudgy finger came out and pointed at Holmes' chest.

"You will investigate the revolutionaries first, that is an order!" he yelled, spittle coming from his mouth.

"Of course," agreed Holmes. "However, to be completely sure I must investigate every possibility. Her majesty's government has made your safety my highest priority. Can you think of anyone else, anyone at all, who might want you dead?"

Immediately a look of calculation appeared in Heinrich Franz's eyes. It was gone in an instant and in its place came an expression of bland innocence. He picked up his glass from the side table and drank deeply, then wiped his mouth with the back of his fist, the gesture serving to clear it of flecks of spit as well as alcohol.

"What sort of a host am I?" he asked rhetorically. "Come, sit," he ordered and waved us to a sofa and some armchairs nearby.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"No, thank you," I said softly. I didn't want to attract his attention any more than I had to. This was Sherlock Holmes' show, and I found it fascinating.

Holmes declined as well and we sat and waited patiently while the prince took another drink, draining his glass.

"There is one possibility," Heinrich Franz said airily. "A local girl. It ended badly. Her father swore revenge, but he is a peasant. What could he do to me?"

"What indeed?" Holmes said, raising his eyebrows sympathetically. "Still, it would be useful to know his name, if only to eliminate him from the investigation."

"You understand that she was nothing, a mere flirtation." Heinrich leaned forward conspiratorially. "I can not help it if the lower classes are attracted to me. Power is a very heady thing for those not used to it, no?"

"As you say," Holmes said neutrally. "Her name?"

"It was a flower, I think. Marigold, or Poppy, something like that," he answered dismissively. "Her father's name is Hooper. John Hooper."

Holmes stood, causing the prince to gape up at him. I realized that he was taller than the prince, and that part of the reason why the prince asked us to sit was to negate the height advantage Holmes had over him. Heinrich Franz shot up to his feet and stepped back, straightening his spine with an effort. Evidently he'd been drinking even before we'd entered the room for he tottered a bit.

"Thank you, your highness. We'll be sure to pursue these leads and report back as soon as we know anything. Come, Cullen."

He turned and left the room with me in close attendance. I suddenly wanted to be away from that awful man as soon as possible.

The carriage took us to Windermere to a small hotel on High Street. Holmes took one look at the darkening sky and scowled.

"We'll have to stay the night and go to the Chase in the morning. The light is fading, which isn't conducive to investigation."

"As you wish," I acceded, not bothering to tell the great detective that night meant nothing to me. I could see as well in darkness as in light, but he could not.

We signed in at the hotel register and deposited our luggage in our rooms upstairs.

"So what's next?" I asked as I exited the small but clean room at the same time Holmes reached his own threshold.

"We've been ordered to investigate revolutionaries," said Holmes grimly. "So since there's nothing else useful to be done, we shall visit the local pubs."

I blinked. Pubs?

"Anyone who tells you that revolutions begin in universities with the idealism of youth has not infiltrated a revolutionary ring. Evidently revolutions require copious imbibing of spirits, for they always seem to congregate in the back rooms of pubs."

"Ah."

That evening Holmes bought several rounds yet never seemed to drink much of anything himself. He asked a few questions here and there, but mostly he was content to let the locals talk. And talk they did, not so much about themselves as about the group of strangers with accents who rented a house 'over towards Kendal way'. There were a few muttered comments about 'dark doings' and 'secret goings-on' but nothing concrete.

Seemingly content with that bit of information, Holmes led the way back to the hotel. The streets were quiet, deserted. Our footsteps echoed on the cobblestones.

"Are you not hungry?" I asked him, realizing that he hadn't eaten anything since he collected me at my lodgings that afternoon.

He shrugged. "I often forget to eat while on a case."

I frowned. That wasn't healthy. Humans required food and rest.

"Why? Are you?" he asked pointedly, staving off my intended lecture.

"I 'ate' a day ago. I shouldn't need to hunt again for a while."

He gave me a sharp look, made as if to speak, then changed his mind.

We walked in silence for a time, then he spoke.

"I'm glad to hear it. There will be blood at the crime scene tomorrow. I asked them not to clean it until I could bring a consultant to see it. I told them you were an expert in blood."

I stopped. "You didn't!"

A bit of amusement appeared in those hawk-like eyes. "I did."

I laughed. I couldn't help myself.

"Carlisle Cullen, blood expert."

"It seemed appropriate," Holmes remarked.

We walked the rest of the way to the hotel in amicable silence.

**A/N: While you don't have to read my previous story, "Dr. Cullen, I Presume?" to understand this one, if you want to know about the mystery surrounding Emily's mother, by all means go and read it. However, it's not crucial to this story and there will be very little else from the first story in this one aside from the brief mention of Emily.**


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

There was indeed blood at the crime scene, cooled and congealed. The floor was covered with it. It had seeped into the carpet and between floorboards. It stained the chair and vanity, ruining a cloth-covered jewelry box. The blood pooled around an inkwell and on a letter whose writing was utterly obscured by the red saturating it. An ornate wall mirror bore the spatter marks of blood spray. The girl's body was gone, removed to the cellar where the coolness would preserve it.

We arrived early in the morning, so early that the family was not yet stirring. Holmes brushed by the butler with practiced ease, reminding the man that he had the family's authority to investigate.

We ascended the stairs and opened the door to the scene of carnage before us. I stopped breathing and took in the details.

Holmes, who'd seen it before, stared grimly at the red stained mirror.

"She was sitting there when she was stabbed." He pointed to the bloodied chair, shoved to the side of the vanity.

"He body lay on the floor when I saw it. She'd been stabbed several times in the chest," he went on dispassionately. "Her father found the body in the evening. He said he heard a noise coming from her room as he passed by the door. He found that the door was locked, called out to her, and when she didn't answer he broke it down."

I glanced back and saw the splintered wood near the doorframe.

"A maidservant was passing by on her way to the back stairs. She saw him enter, heard him cry out and saw him reappear a second later. When he saw her, he ordered her to go and fetch a doctor. She ran down the back stairs and told the butler. Mrs. Thomas, hearing her husband's voice, hurried to the room and collapsed in the doorway. Her husband tried to staunch his daughter's wounds," Holmes nodded to a blood soaked jacket wadded up under the vanity. "But it was too late. The girl was dead."

"And Mrs. Thomas?" My heart went out to the poor lady. To see her child in such a state…

"I haven't been able to speak to her. She's been sedated by the family doctor and her husband refuses me access."

I was startled by the frustration in his voice. He gave me a keen look in return.

"In an investigation, all pieces of information form the whole of a puzzle. If a piece is missing then the puzzle can not be completed."

"But surely, a grieving mother must be allowed to grieve."

"Yes, but justice must have its way as well."

We both looked at the bloodbath for a moment, then I moved away to the window. Broken bits of glass littered the floor and broad wooden sash. The glass appeared disturbed, crushed underfoot perhaps. I looked questioningly at Holmes. He joined me and nudged one of the bits of glass at his feet.

"Mr. Thomas ran to the window when he saw it was broken and looked outside, hoping for a glimpse of the culprit, but didn't see anyone."

"If it had been a vampire, he wouldn't have. Not unless the vampire wanted to be seen."

"If?"

"If." I answered firmly. "There's too much blood here. So far as I know I'm the only vampire able to resist drinking human blood. I've never met another willing to try to resist our bloodlust. If a vampire had killed Fiona Thomas, there wouldn't be nearly this much blood left over."

"Yet you haven't met every vampire. What if one was a member of the prince's much-abhorred revolutionaries?"

I shook my head slowly. "Vampires are not political. Being immortal changes one's perspective on such things. Besides, we can't afford to be involved in things that attract attention, for obvious reasons."

"Nonetheless, I can not discount a vampire until we've tested the theory completely. There's a graveled rose garden below," Holmes said, pointing out the window.

I could smell them, the slightly different perfumes of the varieties blending into a harmonious fragrance that seemed utterly out of place in a room where murder had occurred.

"I guess that's my cue," I said, and left.

Sensing no human in the hall outside, I used my enhanced speed to hasten down the hallway and then down the stairs. Slowing briefly at the front door to open and close it gently behind me as I exited, I rushed to the garden Holmes indicated. I saw him blink in surprise as I appeared far sooner than he expected. He stepped back from the window.

I took a moment to look around before I jumped. I stood on a graveled path which wound its way around roses enclosed by short hedges. Gravel doesn't show footprints the way dirt does. There was no way to tell who'd been on the path earlier. The ivy on the wall directly in front of me was untouched, which was unsurprising if one were to bypass it by leaping directly up to the third floor window.

The thickest vine twined up to the right of the first floor window without so much as a scratch or torn leaf. No human had climbed it. There was no other way up. I listened but heard no sound from the first floor room. The curtains were closed. The second floor window showed wood planks behind its panes. And the third…

I took an unnecessary breath, gathered myself, and leapt.

Landing on the windowsill wasn't difficult at all. I put my hands out to either side of the window frame and stared into the calm face of Sherlock Holmes who stood back by the four-poster bed, arms crossed and waiting.

We both heard the 'crack' as the wooden sill broke under my weight. Concern blossomed across the detective's face as he rushed forward to take my arm. Biting back a smile, I allowed him to help me to the floor.

"Thank you. That was most disconcerting," I lied.

Even if the wall under the window had crumbled, I would have remained unscathed. My improved sense of balance made it nearly impossible for me to stumble or fall.

"Not at all," Holmes replied shortly, dropping his hands from my arm to walk over to the windowsill to inspect the break.

The wood was cracked completely in two, the paint chipped and splintered where it separated.

"It's clear that a vampire did not leap up to this window, kill the girl, and escape the same way."

"Isn't it better that it was a human being?" I suggested hesitantly.

Holmes blew out a breath and gazed pensively at the ruined window.

"I examined the room thoroughly when I was first called in to investigate," he explained slowly. "There is no other point of entry besides the window and the door. While the wardrobe," he nodded over to a large wooden cabinet that covered nearly the whole wall near the door, "is large enough to conceal a man, there was no indication that it had done so. Not a smudge of dirt on the floor, not a garment out of place. This leaves very few possibilities. Either the murderer was already known to the victim or already hidden in the room when she arrived, which is why she did not raise the alarm, or the murderer stabbed the victim and pretended to find her dead."

"You don't mean her father…" I began, appalled at the thought. "Why would a father kill his own child?"

Holmes shot me a look so jaded and world weary that I thought for a moment that I was looking into the eyes of Marcus, one of the eldest vampires I knew.

"I can think of several reasons, none of which bodes well for this case. The other alternative, a phantom killer who murdered Fiona Thomas after she entered the room, hid, and somehow made his or her way out undetected after her father discovered the body, is improbable."

"Didn't you once tell me that once you had all the facts the theory that fit them, however improbable, must be the truth?"

"That I did, and we must eliminate every false possibility before arriving at the truth."

I could see from the expression on his face that Holmes was going over those possibilities in his head. He lifted his chin and looked me in the eye.

"Come, Cullen. We're off to re-interview the staff."

o-o-o

My respect for Sherlock Holmes grew as I watched him with the servants. Patiently he walked them through the events of the evening of the murder until he had a verifiable time-line in place. The prince had called in the afternoon when Fiona Thomas was out riding. According to the housekeeper, Fiona was an angel of mercy who took her Christian duties seriously. Several afternoons a week she'd visit the poor or sick in the village nearby, often bringing them food from the kitchens when her mother allowed it. The prince spoke with her father then left. Fiona returned in time to dress for dinner. The family, including Fiona's grandfather, ate dinner then retired to the parlor. Fiona's maid was called to escort her to her room shortly thereafter and help her prepare for bed. The maid left her alive and well, and the upstairs chambermaid saw Fiona through the open door when she met up with Fiona's maid in the hall outside to ask for help warming the beds of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas. Fiona's maid helped put coals from the hearth in the brass bedpans then left the other chambermaid to her duties.

Her mother, father, and grandfather remained in the parlor. Her grandfather fell asleep in the chair and her father called upon the butler to help him to bed. Mrs. Thomas remained by her father's side to supervise his exit to his room while Mr. Thomas climbed the stairs, ready to retire for the evening.

The upstairs chambermaid, Letty, was the one who saw Mr. Thomas break open the door to the room, give a horrified cry, and come back out again a minute later yelling for the doctor.

The butler saw Mrs. Thomas hurry up the stairs, but being preoccupied with her father, Major Fitzgerald, the butler wasn't able to follow. By the time he got the major to his room, Mr. Thomas had ordered the servants to stay away from Fiona's room, and was comforting his wife.

When the butler opened the door to the doctor and escorted him upstairs, Mrs. Thomas was in her room and Mr. Thomas was standing guard by the door. The doctor was only in Fiona's room for a few moments, then the butler saw him exit and go to Mrs. Thomas's room, preferring to help a living patient rather than remaining with a dead one.

Mr. Thomas then ordered the butler to send messages to the local constable, and to the prince to inform them of what happened.

"The constable contacted Scotland Yard, the prince contacted the government, who asked Mycroft to contact me, and here we are," said Holmes wearily, dropping his pen down on the paper where he'd jotted down the timeline of the crime.

We were seated at a small table in the housekeeper's sitting room, which was little more than a cupboard turned office space. Some time in the course of the morning, she'd left a plate of toasted bread and butter, and a pot of tea. The tea was stone cold, untouched by either Holmes or myself. I pushed the plate of bread towards him the moment he set his pen down.

"You have to eat," I reminded him. He nodded distractedly and bit into a triangle of toast, chewing without interest.

I traced a finger down the timeline, stopping at the point where the butler escorted the doctor to the murder scene. "If the murderer was hidden in the room, he could have escaped when Mr. Thomas took his wife to her room," I suggested.

Holmes swallowed and nodded. "Possibly, but how could he have escaped detection while in the room? It's quite possible the murderer hid under the bed. Unfortunately, the floors are dusted every day so there are no marks in dust to betray his presence after the fact. However, leaving the body on the floor positively invites concerned survivors to kneel beside it to attempt revival or merely to examine it. Whoever he or she was took an awful risk since the dust ruffle of the bed does not go down completely to the floor. And it would take the devil's own luck to leave the room undetected in the few minutes it took for Mr. Thomas to carry his wife to her bed, and to make it outside of the house."

"I made it outside undetected," I reminded him with a smile. "Panic could have lent the murderer wings."

"I suppose," Holmes agreed. "But where is the motive? I must know more. Ask Mrs. Higgins to call in Fiona's maid. If anyone would know a reason why someone would want the girl dead, it would be her."

I went to the door and found the housekeeper in the kitchen, consulting with the cook. Mrs. Higgins said that she'd send Elsie in as soon as she could.

As we waited, I questioned Holmes.

"Why would Fiona's maid know of someone who hated her?"

"Elsie and Fiona were both young. That tends to create a closeness between mistress and servant that leads to a certain frankness that you do not see in older women and their servants. From what I've gathered of Mrs. Thomas, she was not close to her daughter. If Fiona confided in anyone, it was probably her maidservant."

I raised a finger to let Holmes know that Elsie was coming. The girl's footsteps were slow and reluctant as they came down the hall.

She knocked softly on the door, entering when Holmes called out to her.

She was a small boned girl, with drab blonde hair pulled back under her mobcap. Her eyes were red from crying, and her apron wrinkled, as if she'd been clutching it. She sat down gingerly in the chair Holmes indicated.

In a moment, the detective threw off his weary air and focused on the girl in front of him.

"Elsie, you say you saw your mistress alive when you left her room."

"Yes, sir," she whispered.

"She was well?"

"I…yes sir."

Holmes straightened his back and stared keenly at the bowed head in front of him.

"Elsie, look at me," he ordered softly.

Her head came up and she stared at him like a frightened mouse.

"Was she well when you left her?" he asked again.

Elsie looked around the room wildly, eyes pleading first at me, then at Holmes.

"I don't know what you mean sir."

Holmes sharpened his voice. "I think you know exactly what I mean, Elsie. How did you leave your mistress?"

"She…I…She died unhappy, so unhappy, and it's all my fault!"

And with that the girl burst into tears and refused to be comforted.

**A/N: Please leave a review, and let me know what you think so far. I'd be really interested to hear from people who've read my earlier Holmes/Carlisle story to see if they're missing Watson in this one, or if the story is OK without him. **


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

A great while and many sodden handkerchiefs later, Holmes got the story out of Elsie. Elsie's cousin Rose lived with her father, John Hooper, and a younger brother on a small farm near Lake Windermere. Rose went out one day to tend to the sheep when Prince Heinrich Franz came upon her. According to Elsie, the prince violated her and left her in the field where her father found her. When Rose discovered she was pregnant from the violation, she took her own life. Her father found her hanging from the rafters of the barn.

This then was the 'flirtation that ended badly' Prince Heinrich Franz spoke of.

Elsie held her tongue about the prince, hoping that he'd choose some other girl besides Fiona as the prince was considering several girls of good family in the area. However, that night Fiona confided that the prince had asked her parents for her hand in marriage, so Elsie told Fiona about what had happened to Rose.

"She looked so unhappy!" Elsie sniffled. "She was already crying over having to become a heathen Catholic, but she said she had to go through with the marriage, that her parents were counting on her. She ordered me out before I'd even brushed her hair for the night. I wish I'd never said anything. I wish I'd died before hurting her. She's worth ten of him, and that's the last thing I said to her."

Elsie began to cry again, softly and disconsolately.

I patted her shoulder and glanced at Holmes. He was thinking furiously, oblivious to the girl sobbing quietly in front of him. I cleared my throat.

He looked up, focused his gaze on Elsie, and stood.

"Thank you for being so frank with us. You've done a great deal of good."

Surprised, Elsie gulped and stood.

"Have I, sir?"

"Indeed. You may go now."

Confused, Elsie nodded and left, clutching my handkerchief.

I shared her confusion. How had Elsie's revelation helped matters? My heart burned with anger over Rose Hooper's plight.

"Will you tell the constable about the rape?" I asked as soon as Elsie was out of the room.

Holmes lowered himself slowly to his chair.

"Prince Hienrich Franz is royalty, and a guest in our country. What would be the point?"

"What about justice?" I asked indignantly.

"My role here is a narrow one. I'm to discover who murdered Fiona Thomas. We have only Elsie's word for what happened in the field that day."

"I believe her." I interrupted stubbornly.

Holmes looked at me. "And you think I don't? What I believe and what can be proved are two entirely different things. Elsie definitely believes her cousin was raped. She also loved her mistress and couldn't bear to see her hurt, so it's doubtful she murdered her. Besides, the chambermaid, Letty, saw Fiona sitting at her vanity through the open doorway while Elsie was leaving Fiona's room."

"What of Rose's father? Surely if he found his daughter in the field he can testify that she was attacked."

I was grasping at straws and I knew it.

"Attacked, yes, but by whom? He found her after the fact. The only one who could testify to the identity of her attacker was Rose, and Rose is dead. Like Fiona. One case at a time, Cullen."

I turned away and ran my hand through my hair. Solving mysteries was a lot more complicated and frustrating than I'd thought.

"How can you stand it?" I burst out.

"I stand it because I must," Holmes replied. "When Mycroft calls upon my assistance, it is only as a last resort for him. If the prince's theory is correct and Fiona was killed in a misplaced attempt to get at him, then there are certain political ramifications that our country can't ignore. It's no secret that Kaiser Wilhelm of Prussia dislikes his grandmother, our monarch. Mecklenburg-Schwerin was one of the last countries to join Prussia. Perhaps the Kaiser doesn't trust Mecklenburg-Schwerin and would prefer that this alliance not happen. Do you know what it would mean if it got out that the ruler of Prussia conspired to murder an innocent Englishwoman?"

"It would mean war," I whispered.

The population of England would stand for a lot of things, but the murder of a woman? They would demand the Kaiser's head on a stick. I still remembered the uproar after the massacre at the Black Hole of Calcutta was discovered. Even the Italian newspapers were full of England's outrage at the attack on women and children. The backlash against the Indian mutineers had been appalling.

"What will you do if it is the Kaiser, and not revolutionaries or Rose's father who killed Fiona?"

Holmes sighed. "I deal in the truth, no matter the consequences. I will tell Mycroft what I've discovered. I will even tell the prince, since he is technically my client. My real duty is to the dead. Uncovering the truth of this murder is all that I can do. I must leave the rest to Mycroft. Politics is his bailiwick."

I opened my mouth to protest, only to stop as Holmes' hand came up to halt my words.

"I do not expect you to trust me as Watson does, I can only ask that you do not hinder me in any way. Can I trust you to do that?"

I nodded wordlessly at the mix of challenge and appeal in his eyes.

I could have said no to Holmes when he showed up at my door. I'd agreed to help, and so I would. No matter what it cost.

o-o-o

Our interview with the Thomas family had to be put off since they were meeting with the vicar about making burial arrangements for their daughter.

We set out instead for the Hooper farm to speak with John Hooper. It began to rain, a light pattering mist which lasted halfway to the farm and had the driver of our rented pony cart grumbling. Our visit was in vain for John Hooper was gone, leaving only his boy behind to watch the farm.

"Da's off to the pub," the grubby little urchin informed us.

"It's only eleven o'clock in the morning," I marveled, taking out my pocket watch to glance at it.

"Doesn't matter to him," shrugged the boy.

"When do you expect your father back?" asked Holmes.

"When they close up."

"Which pub does he frequent?"

The child scratched his head. "All of 'em. He goes to one, they throws him out, he goes to the next and so on."

"Was he at the pubs the night of Fiona Thomas's murder?" asked Holmes sharply.

Squinting, the boy thought back. "Yes sir. Miss Fiona was kilt on Monday so yeah, he were out drinking."

Holmes crossed his arms and stared at the boy, who stared back unwinkingly.

"Did your father know Miss Fiona and the Thomas family well?"

"Not Miss Fi so much as her da. My da used to work for Mr. Thomas as a footman. Then my granddad died and left him this farm. Rosie used to help," he continued morosely. "Dunno why she'd off herself in the barn. She hated the barn. 'Cos of the spiders."

Holmes produced a coin and laid it gently in the boy's hand. The child's eyes widened in awe.

"What's this fer?"

"You've been a great help, lad. This is for your trouble."

"Weren't no trouble," breathed the boy as he reverently placed the coin in his pocket. "But ta just the same."

"Ta?" I inquired of Holmes as we returned to the pony trap.

"It means 'thank you'," he explained with some amusement.

"So you speak urchin?"

Holmes guffawed. "If you think that child was incomprehensible, I should introduce you to some of my Baker Street Irregulars. One day I intend to publish a monograph on Cockney terminology."

"I should like to read it," I told him. "Where to next?"

"Back to Ambleside Chase. The family should be done making their burial arrangements by now."

"Do you think Hooper did it?" I asked quietly, aware of the pony cart driver's presence.

"He was a footman at the house. He knew the routines and the floor plan. I can't exclude him, not until verifying his whereabouts at the time of the murder," Holmes whispered back, then glanced speakingly at the back of our driver. We lapsed into silence for the rest of the drive back.

In a short time we re-entered the front portal of Ambleside Chase. The vicar was just leaving so we waited in the hall as he made his farewells. I gazed up the carved wood staircase. The railings were exquisite Byzantine curls polished to a shine, and an old painting of a Tudor era family graced the wall of the landing.

I was distracted by my perusal of the painting when the butler announced us to his employers. We walked into the parlor and I saw the grieving parents for the first time. Mrs. Thomas was seated on a low chaise by an elderly man who had the same grey-green eyes as she did. She was pale and shaky, her deep black gown accentuating her pallor and making her light brown hair appear dark and drab.

Major Fitzgerald, her father, sat upright, clinging to a walking cane, which he held perpendicular by his knee. His posture bespoke his military past, but his face sagged with grief.

Mr. Thomas took a step forward to greet us and introduce us to his wife and father-in-law. As he spoke his voice shook a little. It must not be easy to arrange the funeral of your only child. Thomas' hair was mostly grey, shot through here and there with auburn. Like most redheads he had pale skin and freckles. His eyes were blue and I wondered suddenly what color Fiona's eyes had been. Had she taken after her mother's green or her father's blue?

"Forgive our intrusion," Holmes began. "But it would help us greatly if you could give us a few minutes of your time."

"I don't know what else we can tell you," said Mr. Thomas roughly. "I found Fiona just as I said to you yesterday."

Mrs. Thomas gulped and held her handkerchief to her mouth. Her husband glanced at her quickly then looked back at Holmes.

"What more could you possibly want to know?"

Holmes had glanced over at Mrs. Thomas as well. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she sat frozen. She was all but holding her breath to keep herself composed.

"What happened before you found Fiona?" asked Holmes quickly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean here, in this room. It would help me to organize the sequence of events."

I blinked at that, thinking of the detailed timeline in his pocket. He already knew the timeline of events and checked and double-checked all the servants' stories.

"We, Mrs. Thomas and I, told Fiona that the prince asked for her hand in marriage," said Thomas grudgingly.

"And how did she react?"

"She collapsed!"

Mrs. Thomas's voice, harsh with grief, rang out. She stared around the room, eyes lighting on her husband's face.

"With joy," he reminded her. Eyes still on his wife he continued. "Fiona was overcome with joy. She was a good girl, and grateful for the honor."

"The honor of marrying a man twice her age, and becoming a damned Catholic to do it," snorted the Major General, joining in on the conversation.

"Father!" protested Mrs. Thomas.

"Oh she'd have wed him alright, she knew her duty," he went on bitterly. "She would've made all our fortunes had she lived."

I heard Mr. Thomas's teeth grind together, and I didn't need to see the flush of blood flooding his skin to know that he was angry.

"Excuse us, please," he said to Holmes. "We aren't ourselves at present. If there's nothing else, please leave us to our grief."

"Of course," Holmes agreed.

We left the sad conflicted family and returned to our hotel where I insisted Holmes take a few moments to dine. I pretended to drink tea while he demolished a bowl of mutton stew, a chunk of bread, and a dish of pickles. I smiled to myself. I'd had a feeling he was ignoring his hunger. I raised my eyes from my teacup to find him looking at me speculatively.

"What is it?"

"How is your German?" he asked.

"Excuse me?"

I didn't have any patients from Germany, in fact I'd transferred all of my current patients to other doctors in preparation for leaving the country.

"The language, do you speak it?"

"No, not well anyways. I understand it better than I speak it." I didn't tell him it came from reading German medical texts.

Holmes put down his spoon. "How many languages do you speak?" he asked curiously.

"A few."

He gazed, brows lifted inquiringly.

"More than a few I suppose. Latin, Greek, French, several Italian dialects, some Russian and a smattering of German."

Then he began to grill me in fluent German. I had to ask him to slow down at times so that my brain could assimilate the spoken sounds to the images I had of letters and words, but I understood nearly everything he said.

Satisfied, he said in English, "You'll do."

"Do what?"

"As my associate. Tonight we infiltrate the German revolutionaries."

A/N: The plot thickens. Get ready for revolutionary rhetoric and chases in the next chapter. As always, please leave a review to let me know what you think of the story so far.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

The night was dark and clear as we came upon the rented house halfway between Windermere and Kendal. It was set back from the road, and the soft impact of the horse's hooves on the dirt track sounded overly loud in the stillness.

Holmes had spent the afternoon exchanging telegrams with his brother Mycroft in London, requesting any information to be had on German revolutionaries living in London. Whatever Mycroft didn't have filed away in his brain, he accessed from his fellows in the government and soon Holmes concocted a story that was hopefully plausible enough to get us in.

We rented a horse and trap and drove to the house in style, or rather I drove. Holmes was to play the part of a conspirator from London; I was his subordinate.

I could hear the exact moment when the house's occupants became aware of us. There were four blood scents, four heartbeats, one in an upper room, three on the ground floor.

"They know you're here," I told Holmes in German. I'd practiced my accent all afternoon, and thought it passible though not perfect.

"I'm counting on it."

He jumped down from the vehicle before it had completely stopped.

"Wait here and see to the horse, Karl," Holmes called to me in German. We'd agreed to speak solely in German from the moment we set out on our journey.

"From now on, you are playing the part of Karl," He'd said as we stood before the rented vehicle outside the livery stable.

"The key to maintaining a façade is to believe it utterly."

Before my eyes Holmes changed. His posture, the way he held himself, even the timbre of his voice. Before me stood a German, stolid, Teutonic, with suspicious eyes and hands fisted at his sides.

"You see?" he asked in German.

I did. Holmes was like a chameleon. He even looked shorter. The neckcloth he'd donned in lieu of a necktie proclaimed him to be lower class, the sort who wary people would avoid in dark alleys at night. My hat and coat, borrowed from a stable hand at the last minute, seemed a paltry attempt at camouflage compared to Holmes' full bodied subterfuge.

I'd always know Holmes by his scent, but I realized at that moment that I'd have to rely on it alone if I wanted to find him when he didn't want to be found.

Holmes stomped up to the door and rapped on it imperiously, and ending my musings.

I hear pistols being cocked inside, but couldn't say anything in warning for Holmes was already playing his part. I prayed he knew what he was doing.

"You there, in the house, open up!" he hissed.

The door opened a crack, light spilling out onto the doorstep and illuminating Holmes, stopping just short of falling on me as I whispered calming endearments in German to a horse who wasn't terribly keen on being anywhere near me. Animals are much better than humans at sensing danger. I'd be alright as long as I didn't get too close or tried to touch the beast. If that happened, it would probably bolt.

"Who is it? What do you want?" the man in the door asked in accented English.

"German, please! I'm sick to death of speaking English," Holmes said. "Borwin sent me, now let me in. It's cold out here."

Another voice sounded from inside the house. "Who is it?"

The man at the door turned his head to answer in German. "I don't know. He said Borwin sent him."

There was a silence, then the sound of someone moving up the stairs.

"Let him in," said the man inside the house.

The man at the door turned back to Holmes.

"You can come in."

He opened the door wider, caught sight of me, and stopped.

"Who is that?"

"My driver, Karl. You can trust him."

The man gave Holmes and incredulous look.

"Since you don't seem to have posted a lookout, he's my insurance policy. Do you think that just because you live out in the country that there's no danger?"

Irritated, Holmes brushed past into the house. With a last suspicious glance at me, the doorman shut me out and followed Holmes inside.

I closed my eyes and concentrated, intent on hearing the conversation inside. If Holmes needed me, no force on earth would be able to stop me. He was Fiona Thomas's only chance for justice.

Two sets of footsteps, one limping, came down the stairs, stopping at the last step. Whoever they were, they wished to keep to the high ground, to tower over Holmes rather than be on the same level as him.

"What do you want?" a low, guttural voice asked.

"What I want doesn't matter," Holmes answered. "I speak for Borwin, and he wants to know what the hell you're about murdering silly little English girls."

There was dead silence then three voices rang out angrily, all protesting.

"Stop!" The guttural voice sounded and the other voices fell away.

"Well?" asked Holmes.

"What makes you think we killed the girl?"

"We're not children," Holmes said flatly. "We all know the sort of things Heinrich Franz gets up to back home. Some would call murdering his fiancée poetic justice."

"Some, maybe but not us, not Ludwig!" protested a voice that sounded very young, late teens perhaps but surely not yet twenty.

"Even if we had killed the girl, what concern would it be to Borwin? We're Mecklenburg-Gustrow branch, not Mecklenburg-Schwerin. He has no say over what we do." Ludwig was evidently the guttural voice with the limp.

There was a silence. I stopped breathing. This was something Mycroft hadn't told us. We didn't realize there were two resistance movements in Mecklenburg.

"It's thinking like that which will keep the revolution from ever occurring," came Holmes voice, pregnant with menace. "Do you think we can keep working at cross purposes like this? Do you?"

"You know as well as I why we parted ways in the first place," said Ludwig coldly. I could hear his comrades murmuring their agreement. "If Borwin wishes to work with us he will have to answer for what he has done."

"Fine," said Holmes. "I will pass on the message. In the meantime though, what can you tell me about the murder? If you didn't kill the girl, then who did? Heinrich Franz is telling everyone who will listen that it was us. How much support do you think we'll get if the English think we murder their womenfolk?"

"Maybe he did it himself!" suggested the young voice. The other two voices expressed disagreement.

"Maybe he did it just so he could blame us!" the young one stuck to his theory tenaciously. "I wouldn't put it past him."

"Impossible," said Ludwig with finality. "Christian was watching him that night."

"You're watching the prince, here. Are you mad?" asked Holmes.

Ludwig tsked. "We won't try anything on English soil, for the same reason we wouldn't kill the girl. We need the support of English liberals. We watch Heinrich Franz to know his weaknesses. The more information we have the more likelihood of success when we strike."

"And when will that be?" asked Holmes skeptically.

"Why do you want to know?" Ludwig's voice sharpened. "Why are you here at all? How do we know you're not a counter-agent?" The sound of a footstep and a hiss of pain signaled that the leader took the last step off the staircase. I could imagine him confronting Holmes. I tensed, listening hard, ready to strike.

That's when I heard it, horses galloping. There were two of them, well beyond the range of human ears, but coming closer. I smelled it too, the same scent of gun oil I'd caught in Heinrich Franz's room.

Without thinking I jumped off the trap and ripped the door open.

"They're here, they've found you," I cried out.

All heads turned towards me. Ludwig, closest to the stairs, was brown haired and brown eyed, a giant of a man who stood favoring his right foot, hand on the banister. The young one was a skinny teenager, the remnants of acne scars across his face and the same brown eyes and orbital bones as Ludwig, a brother perhaps. The other two were blonde and just beginning to raise their guns towards me when Holmes stepped in front of them.

"How far?" Holmes asked, pointedly ignoring the guns at his back. Even in the midst of the urgent circumstances I noted his courage, or was it mere bravado?

"Not far at all." The horses were almost within human range and once they were this little band of revolutionaries, including Holmes, didn't stand a chance.

"Come," said Holmes, shoving his way through the doorway. Such was the command in his voice that the youngest began to follow before stopping himself to look back at his brother.

"If you want to live, get in!" yelled Holmes, already in the driver's seat, taking the reins.

His words decided me. I'd acted without thinking to save Holmes. The others were, or should have been, incidental, yet I'd warned them too. However, if Holmes wanted them alive….

Taking care not to shove too hard, I got my hand behind the teenaged revolutionary and pushed him out the door. The other two looked for permission from Ludwig. At his nod they ran past me and into the trap without a word. That left Ludwig.

I hunched my shoulder under his and half dragged, half carried him to the trap. Shots rang out just as Holmes whipped the horse into a canter. Running along behind, I leapt onto the back and clung, one of the bullets clipping my shoulder blade and bouncing off to land in the dirt. Broadening my shoulders to shield the men in the cart I felt two more bullets hit my back.

Holmes set a grueling pace across a field. The road curved back around a hill and we were coming toward it quickly, Holmes pointing the horse towards the last possible intersection of field and road. If he left it too late he'd have a steep rocky hill to contend with, one that would surely overturn the vehicle should he attempt to scale it. Looking ahead I saw that another hill joined the first on the other side of the road. It was just as rocky and impassible as the first.

I had an idea.

"Meet you on the other side of the hill!" I yelled. Holmes glanced back and gave a near imperceptible nod.

I waited, watching the ground slip by beneath the pony trap. Ludwig and his men were crouched down in the cramped space, faces tense, trying to stay low to avoid bullets. I let go with my hands and hit the ground rolling.

Aiming my roll to the side of the road I plunged through the bushes until I came to a stand of trees at the base of the right hand hill where the road began to wind between it and the other hill. I shoved, and the first tree fell. Another shove and another crashed down, blocking the road behind the cart. An angry burst of gunfire broke out through the trees. Heinrich Franz's men knew they were beaten.

I ran silently over the hill, the air behind me filled with curses. When I came upon the pony cart it was stopped at a crossroads beyond the hill. I smelt blood.

A/N: To be continued….


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Here it is, the last chapter and the solution to the mystery. Hopefully it will surprise as well as satisfy.

CHAPTER FIVE

"Here he is, as I said," Holmes nodded at me as I appeared using human speed.

On the ground lay the teenager, Ludwig hovering over him.

The other two stayed in the trap, faces set and worried.

"What happened?"

"He got shot, and then he fell out of the cart," Ludwig said.

"I'm sorry, brother," gasped the boy.

"Let me see," I brushed past Ludwig and examined my patient.

There were two wounds, entrance and exit, through the fleshy part of his upper arm. It was the shoulder that worried me though. His arm was at an odd angle. A dislocation.

"We need to sit you up," I told him. "I'm sorry."

The boy cried out as I raised his torso and his arm flopped drunkenly at his side.

"This will hurt," I warned.

"Just do it," he gasped.

"What are you…?"

Ludwig's question was lost in his brother's scream as I manipulated the arm back into the joint.

The boy convulsed, and lost consciousness. In the distance I heard the sound of horses attempting to negotiate the hill.

"We have to go," I said to Holmes.

"What did you do?" Ludwig asked angrily.

I told him in German, but he just looked blank. It figured that the medical jargon I knew best would mean nothing to him.

"I put the arm back where it belonged."

Gathering up the boy, I carried him to the cart and handed him over to the blonde men.

"I can fix the rest later. We have to go."

Ludwig glared, but limped over to the cart and didn't protest when I helped him in. I borrowed a neck cloth from one of the fair-haired revolutionaries and applied pressure to the wounds as Holmes took off down the left-most branch of the crossroads. With any luck, our pursuers would pick the right or straight-ahead options.

Luck was on our side, for we made it back to Windermere without incident. To my surprise Holmes skirted the town and drove directly to the lake. On the edge of the water we bid farewell to the Mecklenburg Gustrow branch of the resistance movement.

The ferry was deserted due to the late hour, but easily untied and commandeered. I gave Ludwig instructions for caring for his brother's wound. He listened with the patience of a man who had heard it before. I wondered how many of his countrymen's wounds he'd treated over the years.

"Thank you, for helping my brother," he said.

"It was nothing. Is there anything I can do for you?" I asked, gesturing at the man's foot, the one he still favored as he stood before us, the majority of his weight on his left side, the right foot just grazing the clay of the ground by the ferry's dock.

"Not unless you can bring back flesh and bone," he answered bitterly. "Prince Heinrich Franz's men impaled my foot with a bayonet the night they burned down our farm. I lost two toes and part of my foot getting free of it."

As I watched the remembered pain on his face where we stood at water's edge with moonlight glinting off the lake and bathing the grasses and foxgloves in silvery light, I couldn't help the rush of sympathy that filled me. The words of a poem I'd read came to me.

To her fair works did nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

"I'm so sorry," I muttered, shocked at what the prince had done. "I can't help you with that. I wish I could."

I was all too aware of my limitations as a doctor. The human body is a wondrous, yet fragile thing. Often I found myself in situations where there was literally nothing I could do to help.

The man's face softened infinitesimally.

"I believe you," he said, and then turned to face my companion.

Ludwig gave Holmes a long stare. "This does much to heal the rift between Borwin and me. You may tell him so. We will contact him when we are ready to make our move back home."

Holmes inclined his head gravely and watched as the man limped over to the vessel and rejoined his friends.

We were silent as the ferry carrying the brothers and their comrades made it to the other side. I saw them disembark and disappear into the shadows across the lake.

Holmes let out a long sigh and clapped me on the shoulder.

"Good man," he said.

I gazed at him curiously.

"How am I 'good'? I nearly betrayed you when I shouted at you in the house. I barely remembered to use German in time."

The man gave a bark of laughter. "Because of you we now know that the local German revolutionaries did not murder Fiona Thomas, and more importantly we know that there's a German spy in the British government."

"What?"

"How do you think Heinrich Franz's men knew where the house was? I certainly didn't tell them, nor did Mycroft. Mycroft needed information about German revolutionary leaders currently in London. In the great game of government intrigue you have to give some information to get some information. Someone who gave Mycroft Borwin's name also leaked the location of the Mecklenburg-Gustrow hideout to Heinrich Franz."

He smiled across the water. "Mycroft will be most pleased. Nothing invigorates him more than a spy hunt."

o-o-o

The next morning I watched Holmes eat his eggs and kippered herring and tried not to inhale the scent through my nose. Most human food smells uninteresting, but I firmly believe kippered herring would nauseate me even were I still a human being.

I put the cup of tea to my lips and pretended to drink, only to stop as I heard the name 'Hooper' as the door separating the kitchen from the dining area swung open to disgorge a servant carrying a tray of plates for the next table over.

"Excuse me," I muttered to Holmes and got up to move closer to the kitchen, and away from the distracting chatter of the diners.

What I heard sent me back to the table and Holmes' curious stare.

"John Hooper is dead," I told him.

He leaned forward on his elbows, kippered herring forgotten.

"According to the kitchen staff he got drunk, fell off his horse, and broke his neck falling into a ditch by the side of the road."

"Any chance of foul play suspected?"

"No," I shook my head. "A farmer driving a milk cart saw it happen. Evidently Hooper was returning home before dawn from a night of drinking. The cook marveled that it hadn't already happened before now. John Hooper was not known for his dexterity with horses, even when he was sober."

"Ah."

Holmes took his napkin off his lap and set it down gently on the table, his brows beetling together. I was beginning to know that look of concentration, and could only guess at the permutations going on in his mind.

Unlike Aro, I had not special gifts or abilities. I was no mind reader. I wondered, idly, what Aro would make of Sherlock Holmes if he ever had the occasion to touch him, then I rebuked myself for having such a thought. I valued Holmes far too much to ever wish his exposure to the Volturi. I did not understand the man, but I respected him utterly. I could say that about very few humans of my acquaintance.

Holmes raised his eyes and fixed his gaze upon me.

"Come, Cullen. I think it's time we examined the body."

o-o-o

Ambleside Chase was quiet in the early morning gray. The clouds lowered over the manor house as though sheltering it. There was a still expectancy to the air.

"Rain's a coming," stated our pony trap driver, the same one who'd grumbled over the rain the day before.

"Indeed," agreed Holmes. I thought I caught a tone of sadness in his voice, but didn't comment.

The butler met us at the door. His watery blue eyes and grizzled hair proclaimed him an old and trusted servant. His clothing was spotless and his back erect, though a slight quiver in his hands showed that his age was beginning to catch up with him. His eyes were faintly rimmed in pink, as though he'd been weeping. It was a testament to Fiona Thomas's character that her death could instill such grief in a family retainer.

"Mr. Thomas is not home to visitors," he said firmly.

"We are not here to visit Mr. Thomas, and are content to leave him in peace. This is, however, a murder investigation."

Holmes drew a folded paper from his inside coat pocket and handed it over.

"I believe you recognize the signature of the chief constable of Cumbria."

The butler handed it back, defeated, and allowed us in.

"Take us to Miss Thomas's body, if you please."

The older gentleman opened his mouth to protest, then shut it and led us down an old stone staircase to the wine cellar. There on a wood table surrounded by walls of solid wine racks, lay the corpse.

"She's been prepared for burial, I take it?" asked Holmes dispassionately.

The butler nodded.

"You can go," he told him, not unkindly.

The man took a last, sad look at the dead girl and ascended the stairs.

"We haven't much time," said Holmes. "Help me remove the shroud."

It is curious, working with a corpse. The blood had been washed away long since, and what was left inside the body didn't entice me at all. Despite the cool chill of the wine cellar there was a faint odor of decay, but I don't think it was strong enough for Holmes to sense it.

Holmes was consummately professional. I remembered reading in one of Dr. Watson's stories that he'd taken classes at Saint Bartholomew's hospital, so autopsies were not exactly foreign to him.

The wounds were what solved the mystery. If only we'd thought to look there first. Then again, without the blood being washed away, we might have missed what was right in front of us.

"What will you tell your brother Mycroft?" I asked softly after we'd re-dressed the body for burial.

"The truth," replied Holmes neutrally.

"Will you send him a telegram?"

"No," he shook his head. "On the off chance that the messages themselves were intercepted by the spy in her majesty's government, I think it best if I tell Mycroft what happened over drinks at the Diogenes club."

"And the prince?"

"That," said Holmes with a glitter of determination in his eye, "is next on my agenda."

The ponycart dropped us off at our hotel to pay our bill and pick up our luggage, then took us on to Kendal. We never said goodbye to the Fiona's family. It was just as well. They'd been through enough.

Hans and Felix stood guard by the door to Prince Heinrich Franz's suite of rooms. The servant who met us at the station was nowhere in sight. I wondered if the prince's bodyguards recovered from their late night excursion, and was pleased to see the dark circles under their eyes proclaiming their lack of sleep.

Hans entered the room, asked the prince's permission, then allowed us to enter.

The prince was sitting at a table eating what looked like the remains of a roasted pheasant. He set down his knife and fork and stood, walking around the table to stand before us. He looked back and forth between us, clasping his hands together.

I kept my face impassive. There was no sense allowing him to see how much I disliked him. Had he been wounded, I would have treated him. It was my duty as a doctor. But there would have been no joy or sense of accomplishment in it.

"Well, what did you find out?" he asked.

"The person responsible for the death of Fiona Thomas is dead," said Holmes. "And it was not the revolutionaries."

I glanced at him sharply. That wasn't what I'd expected to hear.

"What? What?" Again the prince gaped like a fish. Then a look of understanding crossed his face.

"Ah I see. You have taken care of the problem. Usually my men take care of such things for me, but for you to…well. You exceed my expectations. Please accept my gratitude. My secretary will wire you the funds."

He grinned widely, then turned and went back to his food.

I stood nonplussed until I noticed Holmes was halfway to the door. I followed him silently out of the room and through the hotel lobby, keeping quiet until we reached the street. My agitation increased the further we retreated from the vile prince. The pony cart waited for us across the road, but before Holmes could cross over to it, I tugged on his sleeve.

"What was that? Why didn't you tell him the truth?"

"I did," said Holmes simply.

I narrowed my eyes considering each word he'd said to the prince. While technically it was true, the prince had placed a false assumption on the words and Holmes let him. Were the prince to bother to investigate, he'd find that John Hooper, the man who'd vowed revenge on him, was dead. He'd assume that Holmes had killed John Hooper and that Hooper had killed Fiona.

What he didn't know was that among the five downward angled slashes in Fiona Thomas's chest, was a sixth wound. A thin, upward incision angled under the sternum and right to the heart. It was the sort of incision that might be made if a woman had set her letter opener against the edge of a vanity and leaned forward sharply, impaling herself upon it.

The person who'd killed Fiona Thomas, was Fiona Thomas. Faced with marriage to a depraved rapist, aware that her family's hopes of good fortune rested solely on her shoulders, Fiona Thomas took the only way out she could see. A devout young lady who took her Christian duty seriously and attended a strict Anglican church would not take conversion to Catholicism lightly. Damned if she did, and condemned by her family as ungrateful if she did not, Fiona chose the alternative to the two evils facing her. It was so tragically unnecessary.

I thought of Emily, the little girl who I'd shortly be escorting to America, facing such a decision, and my heart broke. I could not fathom the sort of pain women endured, and I cursed a world where such pain was tolerated.

And yet, there were still good people in the world, people like Sherlock Holmes, who fought to learn the truth.

I understood why Holmes told the prince what he wanted to hear. The truth was that Fiona's father, seeing her dead by her own hand and realizing the shame and disgrace it would bring to his wife and his family name, had done the unthinkable.

It was Mr. Thomas who broke the window, tore the ivy, and stabbed his own daughter's corpse to make it look like murder. Exposing the lie would only bring the Thomas family greater suffering. The prince probably wouldn't even understand that Fiona's death was his fault. His self-absorbed nature was frighteningly all encompassing.

"What if he tries again, with another family, another girl?" I asked.

Holmes smiled tightly. "Mycroft will take care of it. A little word here, a little rumor there, and no decent family in England will have him for a bridegroom. His reputation here will match the one he has at home."

"At home?" I repeated blankly.

"Surely you guessed. The only reason Prince Hienrich Franz came to England to find a bride was because no German family would have him."

"Good God, the queen…"

"Knows nothing of the prince's reputation, otherwise she never would have countenanced the match."

"I'll take your word for that," I muttered, thoroughly disillusioned with politics and alliances.

"You can, you know." Holmes turned so he was facing me. "Mycroft knows her majesty quite well. When she was younger, he was the voice she trusted most. She still trusts him, but she grows tired. The crown grows heavy. So Mycroft tries to shield her as much as he can from the things that she can not bear."

"So much for truth."

"Truth will endure, it just may take longer for it to come out."

"I suppose."

"Because of that I must ask you one further favor."

"What is it?" I'd never seen Holmes look so grave before.

"Mycroft will doubtless ask you as well, but I prefer to be the one to say it first."

"Please, just say what you wish," I begged.

"I must swear you to secrecy. The details of this case must never get out."

"I'm off to America in three day's time," I reminded him quietly. "You needn't worry about me."

"I don't worry, not now, but if someday in the future, you read about a coup in one of the Germanic principalities of the Prussian Empire, a tiny branch of Mecklenburg known as Gustrow, well, you might be inclined to react."

"They're going to do it, aren't they?" I asked, thinking of the tiny band of revolutionaries I'd seen retreating across the lake.

"They're going to try," corrected Holmes.

"And you didn't warn him," I realized. "You gave Prince Heinrich Franz no warning at all that both branches of the revolutionaries will cooperate to take over."

"Mycroft is in charge of the politics," said Holmes with look of glee. "I'm just a simple consulting detective. Now, shall we return to London? If we hurry we can catch the mid afternoon train."

"Simple, hah!" I muttered as I followed Sherlock Holmes across the street.

This was one story I'd take to my grave, assuming my unnatural existence ever ended. I thought of all the anguish and the secrets I'd learned, secrets that I really had no right to know or witness.

This then, was the burden Holmes bore whenever he solved a crime. I was happy to give him my word, and I would keep the secrets I'd learned. Suddenly, the thought of America, a newer, younger country separate from the roiling confusing politics of the old world, was more than appealing. I realized suddenly that I could leave my homeland with no regrets.

I would take Emily to her kin, and find my own place. I would not miss much in England, save for the companionship of Sherlock Holmes, and the honor of briefly assisting such a strangely intuitive and intelligent man.

THE END

A/N: The poem Carlisle remembered was a stanza from Wordsworth's Lines Written In Early Spring. Wordsworth lived in the Lakes District and several of his poems were inspired by his life there.

Please leave a review and let me know what you thought of the story. I'd be interested to know if anyone guessed who killed Fiona.


End file.
